Sand in the Wind

by Robert Roth

  When Chalice reached the prisoner, he was still lying on his stomach, motionless except for the slow blinking of his visible eye. Trippitt told Chalice to find out how many others there were, and he kneeled down at the prisoner’s head. Instead of answering him, the prisoner said in a weak voice, “Chieu hoi, chieu hoi.”

  Trippitt interrupted irritably. “I know. You’re a chieu hoi. Okay, okay.” Chalice asked the question again and got a barely audible answer. “He says he’s alone.”

  “No fucking shit? How many were there?” Trippitt turned to Kramer. “Do you think he’s one of those we wounded two days ago?”

  “Probably,” Kramer answered indifferently.

  “Is that enough time for him to get those maggots?”

  Kramer noticed for the first time that the wound was seething with maggots. “I don’t know.”

  Chalice looked up at Trippitt. “I can’t get anything out of him. He’s in bad shape.”

  “I thought you were an interpreter. If I’d wanted a corpsman, I would have gotten one.” He turned to Kramer. “No way we can get a medivac chopper through this canopy.”

  Kramer made no reply. ‘Who’s he kidding? He wouldn’t call in a medivac anyway.’

  “We can’t take him with us. He’d never make it, lost too much blood.” Trippitt paused, but Kramer remained silent. “They probably left him to slow us down.” Kramer knew what Trippitt was thinking, but he refused to abet him. Trippitt told his radioman to pass the word to move out. When the men in front of Kramer started moving, Trippitt motioned for him and the company radioman to follow. As Kramer started walking, he stared over his shoulder at the prisoner, still motionless except for his slowly blinking eye.

  Trippitt stood calmly as the last few men in the column passed by him. Kramer continued to march without looking back, placing one foot carefully in front of the other, ready to flinch. He waited anxiously for the sound, each step making it less likely, though he knew it would come, thinking, ‘What difference — Maybe I could, if I turned’ — and it did come, the sound of a .45, but louder, much louder, and he thought, ‘Out of my hands.’ A few seconds later Trippitt caught up with his radioman. Kramer didn’t look back as he heard the order to halt the column being radioed ahead.

  The company made camp a half hour before dusk. The canopy hid the sunset, gradually blending day into night. Darkness caught the men unawares, even before they had finished digging their foxholes.

  Kramer sat by himself, knowing he should be trying to get some sleep. The picture of the wounded Viet Cong — the slowly blinking eye — refused to leave him. He’d made no attempt to stop Trippitt, hadn’t even said a word. ‘Why?’ And why did it bother him now, now that it was too late, ‘I could have — What difference does it make?’ ‘None,’ Kramer told himself, ‘not to me, anyway.’ Why should it make any difference? Why should he place any more value upon someone else’s life than he placed upon his own? ‘The Gook probably would have died anyway. Just put him out of his misery.’

  Kramer lay back on his poncho liner. Leaves ruffled above him, yet he felt no breeze. The canopy seemed to bring the heavens closer, diffusing the resplendence of a clear but hidden sky into a soft, eerie glow. Cathedrallike, it calmed him, its indifference offering a strange sense of safety. He saw it in his mind even after his eyes closed. Kramer slept well.

  The next morning Trippitt was in an unusually good humor as he explained the day’s plan. “We’re gonna try and catch Charlie with his pants down.” He pointed to their present position on the map. “Charlie usually follows us around to pick up shit-canned or lost food and ammo. Lieutenant Kramer,” he looked up from the map at Kramer, “the rest of the company is going to travel along this ridge until we reach here to set-in for the night.” He indicated a path parallel to the mountains that would take them no higher or lower than they now were. “Your platoon will stay set-in here all day. Be sure and keep out of sight. If Charlie comes scrounging around, you’ll be ready for him. An hour after dawn you’ll head down at a forty-five degree angle. We’ll do the same.” Trippitt pointed to a large plateau about five kilometers above the edge of the canopy. “We should be able to meet here by three o’clock. Write down the coordinates.” Trippitt looked up at him as if they were sharing a private joke. Kramer gave no indication that he caught it. “It’s important that we rendezvous by three o’clock. If we don’t, we won’t have enough time to get out from under this canopy by dusk. That’ll mean no resupply.” Trippitt’s tone became more severe. “I understand some of the shitbirds in this company are out of chow already. We issued four days’ rations per man. It was the job of you platoon commanders to see that your men brought it along. Obviously some of you were lax —”

  Kramer cringed at Trippitt’s remark. He himself had left much of his food behind. There was no way the men could have carried it all. ‘Of course the sonofabitch had had the foresight to get long-rations for himself and the rest of the CP.’

  “ — Are there any questions?”

  Kramer couldn’t resist finding fault with the plan. As he spoke, he looked at the map rather than at Trippitt. “If Charlie knows we’re here now — and I’m sure he does — isn’t it going to be a little difficult to keep a whole platoon hidden? He might even notice that the main column is shorter than it should be.”

  Trippitt hesitated as he seriously considered Kramer’s comment. Then, slapping his hand on his leg, he stood up and said, “Well, we’ll give it a try anyway. Let’s get ready to move-out.”

  Kramer walked back to his men and told them the plan. They seemed happy about getting to sit around for the day. Kramer was looking over the area for a good place to keep hidden when a member of the CP walked up to him. “The captain changed his mind. He says to keep a squad and send the rest of your platoon with the company.”

  Kramer’s stomach tightened as the messenger walked away. He sought out Kovacs thinking, ‘I really fucked myself this time.’

  Kovacs took the news with surprise. “Charlie might show up now whether he thinks we’re here or not. You better hope he doesn’t.”

  “What squad should I take?”

  “Alpha.”

  “How many men will that give me?”

  “Tony’s fire team with Forsythe, Chalice, and Payne; Hamilton’s with Roads, Bolton, and Childs; plus Harmon, Milton, two men from Guns, a corpsman (better take Fields) —that’s thirteen. I guess Preston’ll go with you and I’ll stay with the other two squads. Including yourself, that makes fifteen.” Kovacs paused. “If you want, you can send Preston with Charlie and Bravo and keep me instead.”

  “Yeah, that’ll be better. Tell the men.”

  When the company pulled out, some of the men in Alpha went back to sleep while others stood watch. Harmon saw Bolton furiously rummaging through his pack, and asked him what he was doing. Bolton answered disgustedly, “Before we left, I traded a spiced beef for some pound cake. I’ve got a can of peaches to make shortcake out of it, but I must of forgot it. . . . Pisses me off. I’ve been saving it for when I had some time to enjoy it.”

  A few minutes later Chalice was rummaging through his pack looking for something to eat, when he suddenly exclaimed, “I don’t believe it. I can’t be out of food. I know I brought more than I’ve eaten.”

  Hamilton offered to give Chalice some food, but when he looked in his own pack he found only a can of spaghetti. Bolton had overheard Chalice, and had thought nothing of it until Hamilton also complained of being short of food. He called over to him, “Did you eat that spiced beef I traded you?”

  A look of realization came across Hamilton’s face. He quickly emptied his pack while exclaiming loudly, “Sonofabitch! Sonofabitch! Those thievin’, slant-eyed motherfuckers stole —”

  “Quiet,” Harmon cautioned, then checked his own pack and found some food missing. The other members of the squad began rummaging through their packs. Forsythe and Payne said they thought they might be short some food, but none of the other men seemed to be mi
ssing anything.

  Sickened by the incident, Chalice mumbled to Hamilton, “I gave them half my food, didn’t trade it, gave it to them. But that wasn’t enough. They had to steal some more out of my pack.”

  “We’re doin’ their dirty work, and they steal us blind,” Bolton commented disgustedly.

  Again Hamilton began to complain loudly, and he finally said, “I’d give anything to go back and find their throats slit by the VC.”

  Both Harmon and Tony 5 cautioned Hamilton to keep the noise down. He lowered his voice, but continued to curse the Arvins. Each slur brought words of agreement from the men around him. Chalice again realized how hungry he was; but he couldn’t make himself ask anyone for food. It didn’t seem right that he should eat the food somebody else had carried. Without being asked, Pablo gave him half a can of spaghetti.

  Though the men remained irritated about having some of their food stolen, this did not completely prevent them from enjoying the first bearable day of the operation. They spent the rest of it sleeping and cleaning their rifles. At dusk Kramer divided them into only two watches so they would have more time to sleep. He took the last watch in his group for himself. When the preceding man came to wake him, he was already up. Kramer had been mulling over his situation and continued to do so during his watch. The night was chilly. Instead of getting used to it, he became colder and colder. His teeth chattered uncontrollably. In order to stop them, he began vocalizing his thoughts, actually mumbling to himself.

  “Twenty-five years old and still playing soldiers. Worse than that, not playing. What the fuck am I doing here? Four years of college — an accounting degree — that fits: Nam, accounting; both ridiculous — figuring out how much money some jerk makes — no more absurd than anything else, more obviously absurd — accounting: the defining profession— symbol of Twentieth Century Man.

  “Like to be able to think of one thing I’d change. . . . What difference would it make? . . . Least I don’t fool myself — bullshit: what am I doing here? Playing for time my ass. No guts: can’t blow my own brains out. Let the VC do it for me — walk around like a hero, die like a man; easy as getting up in the morning — the perfect solution: bullet in the head: the great simplifier: no second thoughts, no regrets . . . no time.”

  The thought of his own death relaxed him — brought no sense of fear, of anguish. To him it was a solution, and its existence — as would the existence of any solution — calmed him, slowed his mind. It was always a truth he could fall back on — a limit in a world of infinities, a door that could always be opened, irrevocably opened, enabling not escape to escape, but escape from escape.

  He moved his head in a half circle to scan the area. A slight glow appeared in the east. Looking down at his watch he thought, ‘Yeah, ’bout time for sunrise.’

  Just before Kramer was going to wake the men, Kovacs sat up. They nodded to each other. “Do you want me to wake them?”

  “Yeah, it’s about time. The radio was acting up last night. Do you think it’s because of the trees, or maybe the batteries?”

  “Both, probably.”

  “I’ll tell Milton to put a new battery in. Tell Payne to do the same.” Kovacs stood up and started waking the men. When he came to Payne, he kneeled down and shook him. “Okay, I’m up.”

  “Put a new battery in your radio.”

  “Yeah, okay. . . . Wait a minute! I don’t have a radio.”

  “You what?”

  “Bravo has it.” The platoon had three radios. Milton kept his and the other two were rotated among the three squads.

  “You dumb cocksucker! Didn’t you get it back from them?”

  “Nobody told me to.”

  “Oh, I forgot you wouldn’t have enough brains to think of that yourself.”

  Kovacs stood up, Payne still looking at him. “It wasn’t my fault.”

  Kovacs’s foot flew into Payne’s thigh with enough force to lift him up and knock him on his side. “Sorry, I guess it was my fault.”

  Kramer shook his head when he got the news. “I should have told him.”

  “Any other radioman would have known. He just didn’t want to hump it.”

  “I should have made sure anyway. . . . Finding the company isn’t gonna be easy.” He turned to Milton. “Try a new battery.”

  “I just changed it last night.”

  “Was it working all right before you changed it?”

  “I think so. It just seemed weak.”

  “Do you have another one?”

  “No, I only brought one extra. Do you think we might be in some sort of a valley?”

  Kramer pulled out his map and studied it. “We’re practically on a plateau. We should be getting something.”

  “You can bet Payne doesn’t have one.” Kovacs turned to Harmon. “Tell Payne to get his ass over here.” Payne walked towards them hesitantly. “No chance you’ve got a spare battery, is there?”

  Payne’s face lit up. “Yeah, I got one.”

  “Congratulations. Get it over here.”

  Milton put in the new battery as soon as it was brought over. “Well, at least now we know it’s not the battery.”

  “Maybe it’s the handset. Did you bring a spare?”

  “Yes sir, already tried it.”

  “Keep fucking around with it. We’re gonna stay here another hour anyway.”

  The hour went by slowly. When it had passed, Kovacs got the men on their feet; and he and Harmon put them in the order they wanted them. Before they moved out, Kramer checked with Milton again. “Anything yet?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No use giving our position away with the whip antenna. Put on the tape.” Milton broke down the long antenna and replaced it with the short one. “Pass the word to move-out.”

  They headed back down the mountains bearing forty-five degrees to their left. Bolton walked the point, his feet sinking deeply into the soft mulch of decaying leaves. Harmon walked behind him with the compass, calling out different objects for Bolton to guide on. Harmon had to concentrate. He couldn’t see very far and it wasn’t easy. ‘Vectors,’ he thought. ‘Practice, it’ll take practice.’ Lost in concentration, Harmon was looking down at his compass when the damp heavy air exploded with bursts of rifle fire and the sucking sound of three loud TWAPS.

  Harmon dove to the ground. Bolton flew backwards and crashed down upon him. A trace of black disappeared into the brush. Shoving Bolton’s gangling leg out of his way, Harmon emptied a magazine at the fleeing Viet Cong. A second’s silence brought a hollow gurgling sound. He squirmed around towards Bolton and turned him on his back. Wide, vacant eyes stared up at him. The gurgling sound became louder, interspersed with coughs. Blood, it had never seemed so red before, covered Bolton’s chest, and a steady stream of it drooled from the corner of his mouth. Harmon ripped open his shirt as Bolton gave out an anguished moan. His body convulsed with hacking coughs, spitting blood into Harmon’s face, wheezing, more blood bubbling from the wounds that ran across his chest in an almost straight line. The firing resumed as Harmon fumbled to take the plastic wrapping off his bandage. He pressed the dressing on one of the wounds. It was hopeless. “CORPSMAN UP! CORPSMAN UP!” he screamed above the rifle fire. But he had to keep trying. The plastic wrapper from the bandage lay at his knee. He grabbed it, then the cellophane off his cigarettes. “CORPSMAN UP! CORPSMAN UP!” The wounds had to be kept airtight. His blood-smeared hands refused to move fast enough. He tried futilely to hold all three makeshift bandages in place while Bolton convulsed with coughs and bullets flew inches over their bodies. “CORPSMAN UP! CORPSMAN UP!”

  Somehow, Fields got the word to come forward. He scrambled frantically along the ground on his hands and knees. Just as he got past Chalice, he actually heard Harmon’s yells for help. Instinctively, Fields shot to his feet. At the same instant a chicom grenade exploded a few inches from his ear, knocking him — limbs flying aimlessly — against a large tree. Chalice, firing blindly in the direction of the incoming rounds, fel
t a dull thud as Fields’s helmet landed on top of his flak jacket. Another chicom exploded towards the head of the column, followed by one exploding harmlessly in the brush behind them.

  There was silence.

  The men on both sides of Chalice lay motionless. He slowly turned his head and saw Fields’s lifeless body propped feet in the air against a tree. Chalice hesitated, hoping someone else would go over to it. No one did. He began to crawl over. A helmet lay in his path, one side crushed and peppered with holes. Chalice reached out and picked it up. His hand felt wet. He looked down at the helmet and saw his fingers pressing a large piece of scalp against its side. Fragments of skull and brain lay in the bottom of it. Chalice’s nostrils filled with the stench of death, a stench that existed only in his mind. His stomach tightened in spasms as the helmet fell from his hand. Hamilton crawled over to what remained of Fields.

  Kramer sat up, feeling helpless and inadequate. “Keep trying on that radio,” he told Milton in an excited voice, at the same time thinking, ‘Is anybody dead?’ Seeing Kovacs already headed towards the front of the column, he called after him, “Find out if anybody’s wounded.”

  Hamilton, kneeling next to Fields’s body, shook his head as Kovacs rushed by. Ten yards further up, he came upon Harmon leaning over Bolton — a pair of stunned eyes staring down at a pair of vacant ones. Kovacs kneeled at Bolton’s head. “Dead?” Harmon nodded. He noticed Harmon’s blood-soaked clothes. “You hit?” Harmon shook his head. Kovacs placed his hand on Harmon’s shoulder as he stood up. “We’ll be getting out of here in a few seconds. Be ready.” He headed back down the column checking for other casualties. As he approached Kramer, Milton was still trying to raise the company on the radio. “Fields and Bolton are finished, Roads and Childs got nicked by some shrapnel.”